I think with my hands. I don’t tell them what to do and they don’t tell me why they did it. That’s the only way we get along.
I work by mistakes. All are little windows into rented rooms where a reunion of shapes, lines, and colors jostle for position. Some stay, most get up and leave. Wrong party. Mark, scrape, mark, start over. Over days and weeks, a human figure of tethered abstraction takes shape: confident, moving, laughing, thinking. Always purely expressive and anchored to neither concept nor message.
I work on a painting until it turns to me and says, “Hey, you there, the guy in the filthy apron, pour me a Scotch.” It is not polite to let a painting drink alone, so I pour two. Then I scratch my name in the wet paint and take a walk by the river. A painting is never finished anymore than I am.
art letter | no. 2. 2023 | february
Fresh with Color and Light: Chefas Projects
Art galleries have distinct personalities. Some are refined, quiet, and classy, where the art is so carefully curated that risk has been eliminated, and there is nothing not to admire. . .